Les Romanticism
by FireCube
Summary: After reading Les Miserables, the excessive romanticism bothered me. A lot of parts in the story bothered me, so I decided to write a story/lament about it. It is a combination of mockery of romanticism and what I wish would have happened in the novel. So what would have happened if Valjean had not redeemed himself? With snippets from both the book and the movie/musicals.


Monsieur Myriel was a man of seventy-five. The Bishop was quite lonely, with only the company of his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine. He was tall, and Jesus-like. His flowing white hair and his long beard reached several inches past his shoulders, and his grey toga might as well have just said "Hello, I'm Providence, at your service". His face was riddled with wrinkles from countless hours of smiling at anyone and everyone. Living in a large secluded house at the end of a small road, Myriel, also known as Bienvenu, led a comfortable life. His white table-cloth radiated with a sort of celestial glow, and his white and silver bowls reflected his wealth. His most prized candlesticks sat in the middle of the table, a prime spot if a robber should think to rob Monsieur Bienvenu. Eyeing his precious candlesticks, Bienvenu sighed and sat down, pulling out the Bible. As he flipped to where there was a bookmark, he heard a knock at the door.

This knock came from a man who had journeyed far. He was in tatters, holding a brown piece of paper that had once been yellow. This man, whom I shall not name for now because of romanticism even though we all know his name is Jean Valjean, was a man of middle height, stout and hardy, in the strength of maturity; he might have been forty-six or seven. A slouched leather cap half hid his face, bronzed by the sun and the wind, and dripping with sweat. His shaggy breast was seen through the coarse yellow shirt which at the neck was fastened by a small silver anchor; he wore a cravat twisted like a rope, coarse blue trousers, worn and shabby, white on one knee, and with holes in the other. In his hand he carried an enormous knotted stick; his stockingless feet were in hobnailed shoes; his hair was cropped and his beard long. He had been walking around town for several hours trying to find a place to stay. All the innkeepers turned him away once they saw his yellow ticket of leave. Exhausted and hungry, this nameless traveler came to the end of the street upon which Monsieur Bienvenu resided. His white house almost seemed to _appear_ suddenly out of the darkness, casting a faint glow. The traveler eyed this seemingly magical house and began walking toward it, as a moth attracted to a flame. Upon reaching the large wooden doors, the traveler rapped his knuckles three times. As he stood waiting, the traveler decided to rip up his yellow ticket. After each tear, the paper became progressively harder to rip again. The traveler emitted grunted noises as he struggled tearing the paper apart. Halfway through the demolition the yellow paper, the door opened. Monsieur Bienvenu stood, watching, not saying a word. Raising his eyebrow, he wondered what this man could be doing.

"Ah-hem" Bienvenu cleared his throat. The traveler whipped his head, eyes wide open, upward to look Bienvenu in the eye. Quickly turning his eyes away, the traveler began mumbling to himself, something about "bread", "19", "24601" and "stupidity". Completely disregarding the fact that this man could be dangerous, Bienvenu welcomed him into the house, yelling at a servant to prepare dinner. He even offered the traveler a place to stay overnight, free of charge.

In the middle of the night, the traveler woke up and tip-toed around the house. He could see his reflection in the silver bowls, the large mirrors, and the silver spoons around the house. After putting two and two together, the traveler began filling up his sack with everything that appeared of value. Failing to sneak out quietly, the traveler stepped on a creaky floorboard and tripped over a nail. He tripped, and half of the things in his knapsack fell out. After getting up as quickly as he could, he began running towards the front door, ignoring the raucous his bag was making as all the silver items clanked against each other.

This din woke up Monsieur Bienvenu. "Oh well, he was going to steal something anyway, might as well just let him get away with it", he thought to himself as he went back to sleep. The traveler managed to open the door and go outside, running as fast as he could. Cursing his clumsiness, he began to worry about the repercussions. Would he get caught? Would that one Inspector from prison find him and make it his life goal to hunt down the traveler? As his worries began to overtake him, he realized he had no idea where he was going. As the moon had already set hours ago, there was virtually no light for the traveler to even see where he was going. After running for a few minutes, the traveler ran straight into a tree. Half of the remaining silver items fell out, and there was going to be a huge purple bruise plastered across the following day. Grunting, the traveler began slowly trudging in a different direction. Gazing downward to avoid pain in his neck, the traveler ran into something else. "How many stupid trees are there in this place?" he asked to himself, as an arm grabbed him. "And they have arms too!".

"Argh! Who are you, and what are you doing? I'm Javert!" The mysterious man yelled out into the darkness.

"Um… I'm not a convict, especially not the one from prison that you know… I mean! I'm no one, just a random pedestrian… strolling in the middle of the night, you know, the usual," the traveler stammered. Pulling out an anachronistic flashlight, Javert shining the light in the other man's face.

"Ah-ha! You are Valjean! I have found you at last! I'm not even obsessed with you!" Javert shouted in victory. As he continued the cliché villain speech, Valjean did something smart (for once) and smacked the flashlight out of Javert's large hands. Dropping his sack, Valjean sprinted away from Javert, unsure of where he was going. The darkness enveloped Jean Valjean as Javert squinted his eyes, trying to spot out in the darkness, a fugitive running.


End file.
